


our younger days

by blueside (evendeadimthehero)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eating Disorders, Graphic Description, Idiots in Love, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Physical Abuse, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovered Memories, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-07-30 03:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20090836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evendeadimthehero/pseuds/blueside
Summary: Get out of here, Nat,Steve screams with his eyes,he’s got me.The Soldier's metal hand clenches even tighter around his aching throat and Steve stops struggling, hands slipping down to his sides, legs dangling uselessly. The world spins and his vision blurs, lungs searing from his desperate attempts to breathe. The feeling of asphyxiation is a familiar one, tucked away in the corner of his memories, reminding him of a smaller, weaker version of himself. He thinks of the life he's lived and a stillness washes over him. For a second—for just a heartbeat, he thinks that dying might not be so bad.When Steve finally collapses, he remembers the Soldier's eyes: icy blue; holding nothing but empty tunnels and barren seas.It's okay,Steve wants to tell him,because I see that in my own eyes, too.





	1. blue mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone! this is my first fic so i'd really appreciate any feedback/criticism :) 
> 
> ps: please heed the warnings!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve encounters the Winter Soldier.

It’s cold.

“–Cap? Cap! Come in, Cap. Sam’s down–” he hears someone’s staticky voice buzzing in his ear. His head pounds, the pain sharp and searing, rapid heartbeats throbbing behind closed eyelids. It’s cold. He pulls in a long, ragged breath but there’s no air; just coldness. There’s fluid filling his lungs and it brings him back to the past—the Steve before the serum. The Steve before everything happened.

_“You still holdin’ up, Rogers?” Bucky sits on the bed, brushing a rough hand against Steve’s damp_ _forehead. There’s a streak of something black on his cheek. Steve breathes, chest rattling with effort, drawing in the lingering blend of salty sweat, food, and cigarette smoke in the air. “What? You gettin’ tired of me?" Steve smacks the hand off his forehead. "What’s on the burner?” Bucky chuckles, smooth and velvety._

God, what Steve wouldn’t give to hear that sound again.

_Bucky’s lips curl and the corner of his eyes crinkle. “Bone broth. Guess that crooked nose o' yours is still good for somethin’.”_

He jolts awake and coughs, water draining from his lungs and dribbling down his chin. There’s someone dragging him out of the cold. His chest, face, legs, _everything_, aches, secondary only to the piercing pain in his stomach. He blinks open his eyes and sees the blur of exploding helicarriers over the lake, feels the rumble underneath him as debris meet the floor. He tilts his head and sees someone limping away.

“Who–” Steve coughs and tastes coppery metal in the back of his throat. Something warm, blood, oozes out of the laceration in his stomach. “Who are you?”

It’s a man. He looks back and Steve catches a quick, hazy glimpse of him. Lanky brown hair. Messy black paint around the eyes and a mask covering everything underneath it. A metal arm. The man turns and staggers off. Steve hears another crackle of “Cap?” in his ear, but the second he closes his eyes he’s drifting.

The last thought in his head before passing out is that he swears he saw some blue behind the charcoal smudges.

\----------

“So you think he pulled you out because he _knew_ you? Sorry to break it to you, Cap, but that’s usually not how Hydra assassins work.” Sam drops the thick manilla folder onto the table. A yellowing picture of the Winter Soldier is paperclipped to the front, holding up a sniper rifle and wearing the same intimidating black mask.

Steve sighs and drops into a chair, wincing in the process. His gunshot wounds still haven’t healed over. “I’m saying that it’s a possibility. There’s no other reason for him to pull me out of the river. He definitely could have killed me if he wanted to.” He points out stubbornly, running a hand over his tired face. Exhaustion shows itself in the dark circles underneath his eyes and the light stubble growing along his jawline.

The door swings open and startles them both. Natasha limps in with Tony, both looking stressed, worn out, and in dire need of a few bottles of 5-hour energy.

“You doing all right, Cap?” Tony plops into a spinning chair with a grunt. “You seem to have a thing for falling into large bodies of water.” Sam huffs out a chuckle and Steve responds respectfully. They discuss plans for the new SHIELD and Tony yawns every 2 minutes. They stop when Tony falls asleep. After a while, Natasha leans over the table and unclips the picture of the Winter Soldier, staring with something intense in her eyes.

“You happen to know Robo-Cop?” Tony quips, rubbing his eyes.

Her voice is tense when she starts speaking, face stoic and unreadable—the face she was trained to be seen with. She clears her throat. “Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa, we lost control and went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out, but the Winter Soldier was there.” she pauses, “I was covering my engineer so he shot him, straight–” she lifts up her black t-shirt, flashing a jagged pink oval scar on her lower abdomen, “–through me. Russian slug, no rifling.” Sams sucks a sharp inhale through his teeth.

Tony purses his lips. “So this guy is… like you? Soviet-made?”

Natasha shakes her head, unsure. “He’s… different.”

Tony kicks his feet up on the table and flips through the manilla folder. “Show me what you got on the Winter Soldier, JARVIS.”

“Just a moment, sir.” the contents of the manilla folder, cropped newspaper articles, and Hydra operative profiles line up on the wall in front of them. A map pops up with a red pin in the center and Tony zooms in with a wave of his hands.

“What am I looking at, J?” Tony sits upright. There’s a building, _a courthouse_, Steve realizes. It looks oddly familiar.

“This is the Superior Court of Justice located in DC, approximately 2 miles east of the Triskelion. I suspect that Hydra was using the underground facilities as a human experimentation laboratory.” Steve feels something cold run up his spine. _Human experimentation laboratory,_ he repeats. Even saying those words left a bad feeling in his stomach and a bitter taste in his mouth. Tony stands up, sorting information around on the interface. “Huh. That’s an odd spot for a torture chamber. Anything fishy going on? Other than the torturing.”

There’s a pause. “My records show that 8 plumbing service companies have been called to the Superior Court of Justice this month.”

Steve hears a whistle. “Damn, they got some steep bills to pay.” Sam shakes his head, eyes wide with incredulity.

“Get in closer, will you? Let’s see what’s going on in Hydra’s little human playground.” Tony’s already trying to find the best routes to the location, comparing travel times and modes of transportation. The screen doesn’t move.

“There seems to be something blocking my vision panels, sir.” JARVIS responds. Tony stops and furrows his brows, “Huh. That usually doesn’t happen.”

Natasha stands up with a groan, hands against the table. “Guess we’re going on a road trip, boys.” She quirks her brow and swings a leather jacket around her shoulders. “This’ll be fun.”

\----------

“We got 7 in front about 500 meters forwards and 6 on the second floor.” Tony’s voice buzzes through Steve’s earpiece, “You ready to bust some ass, Cap?”

\----------

Breaking in is usually the easy part. Seeing what’s inside is always harder. Iron Man blasts off a heavy vault door on the bottom layer of the courthouse and for a second or two, they see nothing but settling dust. After several coughing fits, Sam shines his flashlight into the secret lab. The walls are soundproofed and covered in some sort of metal foil. Natasha mutters "Guess that's why JARVIS couldn't see anything." under her breath. They venture into the room and after a minute of cautious walking, they freeze. Steve feels something dark and frigid crawl up his spine, his stomach lurching.

“Holy shit. Jesus, fuck.” Sam’s hands fly to his head in disbelief and Tony sucks in a sharp inhale. There’s rows, one on each side of the wall, of glass and metal tanks with people, _humans_ sitting in them. Steve clicks open his own flashlight and walks further into the room. The rows seem endless in the dark, dank labratory. A waft of something putrid floats in the humid air around him and he forces himself to breathe through his mouth instead. He feels something cold seeping through his boots and a little voice in the back of his head tells him that the floor will be red if he looks down. He drops his head and realizes, to his relief, that it’s just murky water.

“This one–this one’s dead. Shot through the glass, hole between the eyes.” Natasha looks up at Steve with wide eyes and a paling face. In the unlit room she looks so vulnerable, so young and scared. He turns to take a closer look at what’s inside the tank. A man, maybe early thirties, face shrunken and whitened with death, lifeless eyes staring straight ahead. His body is shriveled and..._blue_. There’s water stting in the bottom of his pod.

“They’re all gone.” Sam swallows. Steve points his flashlight at each one of the glass tanks, and sure enough, there’s a clean hole between each of their open eyes, blood dried against chalky skin. They walk past the dead bodies and sees something that makes Steve’s blood run cold. There's men sprawled out on the floor, half submerged in water, necks bent in unnatural positions. One man has a clean hole the size of a fist through his stomach.

There's a leather chair in the back, bolted to the floor next to a metal table. Several straps and clamps are attached to the chair, made to hold undoubtedly, a human. A machine attached to the floor hangs over the top of the chair and thick cables run from the chair to several monitors a few feet back. On the table, there’s a surgical tray with tools that are caked in so much blood they’re unrecognizable. They walk even further. Sam stops mid-step.

“What the hell is that?” he asks.

Upon seeing it, a flash of---someone, a memory, suddenly pops up in Steve’s head.

_“This is a cryogenic chamber”, Howard smiles, pointing to the clunky metal box. “It’s meant to replicate the state you were in at the bottom of the ocean”._

It takes him a minute to put the pieces together. “It’s a cyro chamber.” Steve realizes, and something dark, something vile curls in his gut. “All the tanks were cryo chambers.” _They were all murdered in their sleep. _Steve’s voice is controlled and steady even though he feels shaky and scared and _disgusted._

“And what the hell are those?” Sam points his flashlight to the floor and there’s a lineup of chain whips and taser rods, every single one of them rusted over with dried blood.

\----------

“Okay, this situation just got a lot worse than I imagined.” Tony brushes a hand through his unwashed hair, walking nervous circles around Steve and Natasha's chairs. Sam's on the couch— he still feels his stomach turn when he stands up even though they left the base hours ago. “But here’s the good news: We’ve got two more Hydra locations to crack, then that’ll be the end of it.” Tony stops pacing. He stares each of them in the eye. “No more heads to grow back after that.”

The first location wasn’t difficult to crack—Steve reckons he could have fought his way through by himself. He's done this tens, maybe even hundreds of times. The second one, however, was more of a challenge. Steve does what he’s supposed to do: kill whoever’s shooting at him, scan as many Hydra files he can find and then get out, alive. He’s on step two when he senses something, or rather someone, watching him. He’s hunched over a file cabinet, hands full of manilla folders when he feels it. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he straightens himself out, eyes searching around the room for movements. When he finds nothing suspicious, he goes back to the filing cabinet. He pulls out a thick folder with red cryillic script on it.

“I found something.” he announces, a finger brushing against his earpiece. “Natasha, I’m gonna need your help translating this. I’m on the third floo-” he gets cut off mid-sentence when he hears a thud, and suddenly something cold and solid wraps around his throat from behind him, binding him in an efficient chokehold. He struggles against it, puzzled by the unexpected attack, and realizes that it’s a man and what’s choking him is an arm. His mind blanks out.

It’s the Winter Soldier.

He wraps his sweating hands around the silver limb, secures it to himself and then lurches forward, flipping the Soldier onto the ground. The Soldier gets up immediately and raises his fists, completely unfazed. Steve dives forward, fist pulled back as hot adrenaline pumps through his veins. The Soldier dodges his first punch and manages to land a hit to Steve’s sternum, hammering the wind out of him with a painful wheeze. Steve swings his fist again and punches the Soldier square in the jaw, knocking off his goggles. When he faces Steve again, there’s no anger, no pain in his eyes, just a cold, composed glare. He unsheathes a knife and charges. Steve barely dodges it. They fight until Steve’s lungs are burning with effort and sweat is running down his hairline.

_Haven’t fought someone this close-matched in decades,_ Steve thinks in the middle of ducking under a blade. In the corner of his eye he sees Natasha kicking through the door, panting, then pointing her gun at the Soldier’s head. Her aim is precise despite the distance between them. The Soldier manages to swing an arm up to his head in time and the bullet lodges itself deep into his bicep instead. He stays eerily silent, not showing any signs of—_anything_. He reaches into his pant pockets, swift and robotic, pulls out a handgun, shoots Natasha in the leg and dodges her second bullet all within seconds.

“Shit!” Natasha’s gun clatters against the floor and she falls to her knees. Her hand darts out to grab it immediately but the Winter Soldier shoots at the gun until it breaks apart into unrecognizable parts.

Her gaze meets Steve's. “Steve! Go!” she waves her arm frantically towards the open door, eyes wild with panic. Steve throws his shield at the Soldier with as much force as he can muster and there’s a thundering _clang_ as metal meets metal. The Soldier’s silver hand catches it, the shield clenched between his fingers. He swings it back at Steve, aiming for the head. Steve ducks and watches with shock as the shield lodges itself completely into the cement wall behind him. When Steve turns around, the Soldier is already there, quiet and deadly. He feels cold fingers digging into his throat and the crack of cement against his back.

The Soldier forces him into the wall, lifting Steve a few inches up in the air. Steve hears Natasha’s distressed calls for backup in his intercom and he kicks uselessly at the Soldier’s gut but unsurprisingly, the Soldier’s grip stays firm. The Soldier punches Steve again and again with his flesh arm and Steve's fingers claw against the smooth metal. He scratches until the skin on his fingertips gets caught between the sleek silver plates, until his eyes tear up and the fire in his lungs grows unbearably hot.

_Get out of here, Nat._ Steve screams at Natasha with his eyes. _He’s got me._  
  
The Soldier's metal hand clenches even tighter around his aching throat and Steve stops struggling, hands slipping down to his sides, legs dangling uselessly. The world spins and his vision blurs, lungs searing from his desperate attempts to breathe. The feeling of asphyxiation is a familiar one, tucked away in the corner of his memories, reminding him of a smaller, weaker version of himself. He thinks of the life he's lived and a stillness washes over him. For a second—for just a heartbeat, he thinks that dying might not be so bad.  
  
When Steve finally collapses, he pictures the Soldier's eyes: icy blue; holding nothing but empty tunnels and barren seas.  
  
_It's okay,_ Steve wants to tell him,_ because I see that in my own eyes, too._


	2. target acquired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Asset remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, thanks for reading! pls heed the warnings as the story's gonna get pretty heavy from here on out. i'm looking for a beta! if you're interested, please let me know. if you need a beta as well, leave your fic in the comments :) 
> 
> also, the style that bucky's POV is written in is inspired by [this work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12823671) it's arguably one of the best stevebucky fics i've ever read. pls go and give it a read
> 
> enjoy!

The vault door swings open and the heavy thuds of combat boots echo in the laboratory, followed with orders being barked and guns being reloaded.

A doctor dressed in white scurries to greet the armor-clad men coming through the door. They stand around the Chair, weapons pointing at the Asset.

“Sir—Sir, he’s been… erratic. Unpredictable. The drugs are influ-” the doctor is dismissed by a rough wave of a hand.

“I don’t fucking care. Get the taser if he misbehaves.” Rumlow straps on his kevlar vest. “Prep him, we leave in 10.” 

“But Sir, he’s been out of cryo freeze for too long. Our programming might be compromised.” the doctor fumbles with the brain scans and test results on his clipboard. _ Brain cells recovering—inducing flashbacks _is written in red pen.

“Then wipe him after the mission. Hey, wake the fuck up.” Rumlow pokes the Asset with the end of his gun.

“Sir, he’s not in the state to receive a mis-”

“Jesus, I don’t have time for this.” Rumlow cocks his gun and shoots the doctor through the head. 

\----------

It’s cold. The Asset is on the Table. Eyes are open but there’s only white. Flesh arm is strapped to the table and the metal one is being fixed. Someone pokes a thick needle into the flesh arm. Then another one. Then another. Then another. Stops counting after the 6th. 

He waits until the needles get taken out. He gets up and gets hosed-down. 

_ he ain’t so scary when he’s buck-ass naked _

There’s no food. No food even though the stomach earthquakes and the eyes can’t focus. _ The body does not require many calories to simply survive. _

The Asset grabs the guns handed to him and hides the knives in the pants. Ties up the boots. Left stomp. Right stomp. Puts on the mask. Puts on the camouflage. Steps into the black car and _ await further instructions, Soldier. _

**MISSION DETAILS 20140313**

Objective: Eliminate target

Target: Rogers, Steven Grant. (_ Alias: _ Captain America _ ) _

Sex: Male Ht: 6’1 Wt: 240 lbs 

Threat level: High

The Asset looks at the _ Rogers, Steven Grant _ photo a Handler is holding. Big blue eyes. Blonde hair. Crooked nose. Skin like milk. Holding a big red blue white plate.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” 

The Asset stops looking at the photo. He thinks he knows someone who looks like that.

\----------

The wind is blowing hair into the eyes and breathing is tight under the mask. Wait for _ Rogers, Steven Grant _ on the big sky machine. No signs of target. Wait. No signs of target. 

A man climbs up the side of the big sky machine. “Don’t worry, Sam. I got it.” Target located. Leave the hiding spot and engage. Gun out, aim for the head but misses—

_ “Thought you were a sharpshooter!” Steve has a stupid grin on his face and a plastic dart in between his fingers. He shoots. Bullseye. Steve turns around, eyebrow quirked, cocky. “Where’s all that skill now, Barnes?” _

—Focus. Re-engage. Shoot the leg instead. _Rogers, Steven Grant_ throws the red blue white plate and the Asset ducks. _Rogers, Steven Grant _keeps running to the control panel. The Asset shoot his stomach once. Twice.

The target collapses but gets up again. _ Rogers, Steven Grant, _ is climbing up. _ Failure will not be tolerated, Soldier. _

Drop the gun and run to the target. Pull him down and punches with the Arm but _ Rogers, Steven Grant _ doesn’t go to sleep. The target kicks hard and the Asset falls to the platform below them. _ Rogers, Steven Grant _is crawling to the control panel with red trailing behind him. He inserts his USB.

“Charlie lock. Fire now!” The target is leaning against the control panel with red on his hands. The Asset is out of guns. Complete the mission and re-engage with the Arm. “Do it, Natasha!” The target yells. The Asset climbs up, crawls to the target and punches him again. Pull off the target’s helmet and punch the head. There’s red on the yellow hair.

_ “Hey—hands off the hair, Rogers, and fight like a fuckin’ man!” he's laughing, arms flailing as he smacks Steve and gets a wet finger down his ear in return. “What do you know about bein’ a man, Barnes?” Steve’s eyes are so bright and so blue under the sunlight. _

Smoke is in the eyes. The big sky machine cracks apart and the target falls. The Asset holds on to the railing. Everything slows down. _ Rogers, Steven Grant _ is falling and his big blue eyes are wide. His arms are reaching for the Asset. His mouth is open but there’s no sound coming out. A silent scream. The Asset understands.

_ “Bucky!” the icy breeze howls in his ears, whipping his hair around his face. Steve is on the train, hand extended, eyes widened in horror. Bucky is flying, arms out, fingers desperate for something to hold. His screams are lost in the deafening whistle of the wind. It’s cold when he hits the ground. _

The target hits the water. The Asset dives in.

\----------

The Asset wakes up in the Chair. It’s dark.

“Mission report.” It’s an order. The head hurts so bad the mouth can’t answer.

“Mission report, now.” The man asks again. The Asset squints his eyes and the lights are sharp.

The man slaps him. His eyes are open now and he looks at the man. He remembers him.

_ “This is for your own good.” Pierce takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves. There’s a taser in the corner of the room. He walks over, picks up the taser and the Asset starts to shake in the Chair. He smirks crookedly and there's a sinister glint in his beady eyes._

_“You’ll learn to follow orders after this.” _

“What happened after the crash?” Pierce has blue eyes, too. His are different. His are cold. “I heard you broke protocol and spared the target. Is that true?” 

He remembers now. Cold and wet. The target is cold and wet when the Asset drags him out. His face is battered and bruised and blood runs from the nose.

_ “Jeez, stop worryin’, Buck. You ain’t ever gotten a nosebleed?” Steve has a scowl on his face, skinny fingers pressing a scrunched up towel to his nose. _

The Asset doesn’t respond. He knows he failed the mission. Pierce says _ give me the taser _. The Asset doesn’t respond even when the back is so hot it feels like fire and the face is wet and salty. Rough hands grab the hair. They drag him to the Chair and straps down the arms and legs.

“Wipe him and make it hurt. Bring him to me afterwards.” Pierce has hands on his hips. The Asset shakes his head. _ No. Please, not again. _Breaths go in and out faster. 

Pierce huffs out an ugly chuckle. “You don’t want to be wiped? Then you shouldn't have failed the mission.” there’s a _ whoosh _ and the straps go tight.

\----------

The doctors press a button and the Wiper buzzes awake. “No!” an animalistic scream rips through the Asset’s throat, sudden and unexpected, and the doctors around him jump. He struggles against the clasps around his torso, body slick with sweat and muscles clenching with suppressed anger. He hears the static hum of the Wiper above his head and _ panics, _ body thrashing against the constraints. “No! Don’t! ” he yells frantically, tears burning his eyes and chest heaving with gasps. He remembers the Wiper. He remembers the pain. He flexes the Arm, feels the plates get tighter and tighter and tighter and ti—

The metal arm whines and the clamp around it flys off the chair. It shoots out and grabs the nearest doctor by the neck, snapping it with a sickeningly loud _ crack. _

Pierce’s mouth gapes. The other doctors scramble to the intercom, calling for backup. The Asset looks around and finds a scalpel, eyes wild with hysteria. He hurls it and it jams into the speaker, making sparks fly. The Asset reaches for the scissors next.

“Stand down, Soldier! Stand down _now__!__”_ Pierce barks, and something clicks in the Asset’s head, like a lightswitch, like an off button. The Asset freezes unwillingly, the tips of his fingers brushing against the cool metal of the scissors. _Orders are absolute, Soldier._

His heart beats against his chest, nearly bursting with adrenaline.

_ followin’ orders is all you’re good for, you useless fuckin’ piece of_—

Stop it.

_ yeah, i bet you like that huh? shut up and take it you little wh_—

Get out of my head. Get out of my head.

_ hold him down. make sure he doesn’t scream, ‘cause this is gonna hurt re— _

“Get out!” The Asset shouts, digging metal fingers into his own scalp. Something wild and feral unleashes itself inside him. He rips the straps off his flesh arm and reaches for the scissors again. He throws them and it cuts through the air, burying itself into Pierce’s left eye, clean and precise. Pierce's knees fold and he collapses against the cold floor, red soaking through his hair.

_ There’s screaming and cheering and smoke in the air. They’re on a shooting range. “What’s my prize if I make it?” he turns and asks a man with a funny mustache. Dum dum Dugan. “Depends. You got your eyes on somethin’ o’mine?” Dugan yells over gunshots. His lips curl into a boyish grin. “Your sister’s quite the classy dame.” Everyone laughs. There’s a sign next to the target labelled ‘1400 yds’. The guys swarm around him when he makes the shot first try, chanting his name and slapping his back. He’s happy. _

He stands up, lungs heavy and fists curled. Something hard strikes the back of the head and sends a crack of white-hot electricity down his spine. He turns around, slow and menacing, then thrust his metal arm through the doctor’s stomach, impaling him.

The doctor gasps in shock and drops the taser, the veins in his neck straining as the Asset raises his body into the air. He hits the floor with a wet thump when the Asset retracts his arm.

The Asset kills the rest of the doctors. He kills the rest of the Assets in the cryogenic tanks as well, because he knows nobody will wake them up. When he walks out of the room, he hears his stomach growl.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you like it! pls drop a comment or a kudos if you did :)


	3. eyes open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a shocking, long-awaited discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, heed the warnings! This chapter has some pretty graphic descriptions.

_ "I had him on the ropes.” Bucky passes the handgun back to him, disgruntled, child-like. Steve flashes him a fond _ _grin, “I know you did.” They’re walking down the train corridor when Steve hears footsteps behind them, then the high-pitched whine of a machine. He turns swiftly and raises his shield, the movement fluid and practiced. _

_ “Get down, Bu-” _

_ There’s a deafening flash of blue and suddenly Steve’s on the floor, back against the wall, the frigid air biting his face and ears ringing from the force of the impact. As he shields his face from the wind he realizes the side of their train section had been blasted off, exposing the sea of white beneath them. Bucky scrambles to his feet and faces the soldier, Steve’s vibranium shield held tight against his chest, other hand white-knuckling the gun. The wind tousles Bucky’s hair. There’s another whine from the machine and the explosion rattles the train, sending Bucky hurtling through the hole in the wall. Steve clambers up, dread curling in his stomach, grabs the shield and knocks out the soldier. He rushes to the side of the train and Bucky's hanging onto a handlebar, eyes wide and panic-stricken. _

_ “Bucky!” Steve yells, extending his arm, “Grab my hand!” he reaches his gloved hand further, muscles straining as he tries to stretch just a little bit more, get a little bit closer. Bucky lifts one hand off the bar with a grunt and the tips of their fingers touch. The train lurches and the handlebar detaches itself from the train. “Steve.” Bucky is flying, hand still reaching for him, pale eyes wide with terror, his screams so loud over the howl of the wind and the chugging of the train. “Steve.” the awful feeling of horror twists his stomach, coiling tight around his throat and suddenly he can’t breathe, he can’t h- _

“Steve!”

Steve jolts awake, heartbeat erratic and face pale, prickled with sweat. His hands are clenched beneath the blanket. Sam sits beside him, eyes scanning him with a frown on his face and he rubs a warm hand on Steve's shoulder. Steve sucks in a deep breath; he’s okay. It’s 2014 and he’s safe here with Sam. JARVIS greets him with a soft _ Good morning, Captain Rogers _ and Steve realizes they must be at Stark's place.

“You okay, man? You were talking in your sleep.” Sam hands him a glass of water. 

“Yeah, just-” Steve takes a sip and chokes, his throat feeling sore and gritty. “Just a bad dream.” His voice is unrecognizably hoarse and he runs his fingers over his neck, wincing at the tenderness. Sam notices and passes him a mirror apologetically. He sees his reflection and grimaces—there’s purple and black splotches around his neck, harsh against the pale skin. 

“He almost crushed your windpipe.” Sam explains, and the events of yesterday flood back. He remembers Natasha, remembers her frantic voice in his earpiece and his slackening grip on reality as the Winter Soldier’s hand tightened around his throat.

“Where’s Natasha?” Steve asks, voice cracking. Sam throws a thumb over his shoulder. “The room next door. Slug to the thigh. 12 stitches and she was still conscious, unlike someone.” He jabs. “She’s real tough, huh?” Sam’s eyes are dreamy whenever they talk about Natasha. 

Steve chuckles, followed shortly by a wince when his throat aches in disagreement. “You know, she prefers quiet guys. Maybe you should start working on that.” He retorts. He lifts the covers and swings his legs over the bed, pulling out the IV from his arm. 

“You’re a lucky guy, Cap. Spared by the Winter Soldier twice. Either he’s completely in love with you or you’re just stronger than him.”

Steve laughs bitterly, tipping his head down. Why_ had _ the Soldier left him alive again? The look in his eyes as he choked Steve, the desperation, the _insanity__— _God, it all felt so familiar yet so far away.

JARVIS chimes and Sam jumps, cursing. 

“Mornin’, Cap. How’re you holding up? ” Tony chirps through the speaker.

“Tony. Did you find anything?” Steve greets raspily.

“Who is this, Batman?” Tony snickers, “I found something. Haven’t looked at it closely yet, but I’m guessing you’re going to want to see this.” 

“What is it?”

“The folder you dug up, the one with Russian on it—there’s mission reports from the Soldier dating back to the ‘40’s.” 

_ “Come on, Stevie, live a little!” Bucky swings one arm around Steve’s shoulders, the other wrapped around the waist of a smiling blonde dame. There’s a limp in his walk. A cigarette dangles between his lips, unlit, and his pomaded hair is tousled, strands arching over his sweaty forehead. The air is hot and heavy with perfume and smoke and Steve checks his pockets habitually for his inhaler. They’re chatting at the bar and ‘In the mood’ starts to play, Bucky’s girl dragging him to the crowded dance floor excitedly, leaving Steve alone. _

_ “Don’t dance too hard or your ankle’s never gettin’ any better!” Steve warns, voice muffled over the crooner music. The disco lights glitter in Bucky’s eyes when he turns around and beams at Steve. _

_ “It’s the ‘30’s, baby, things ain’t gettin’ any better than this!” _

“—plans? Hey, Darth Vader, are you even listening? You know what—just come here.” Tony grumbles over the line. Steve blinks confusedly and Sam eyes him, lips pursed.

“Y-yeah. Sorry, just—just remembered something. I’ll see you later.” 

They’re in the hallway when Sam turns to Steve. “You wanna talk about your dream?” he asks, gentle and coaxing; a skill he picked up from his years with the VA. Sometimes Steve wished he weren't so good at that. He sighs, recalling only foggy fragments: wind whistling in his ears. A blast. Screaming. White.

_Fuck. _Screaming. Bucky. 

Slivers of his dream start flowing back. He remembers Bucky falling, remembers the look on his face and the awful terror in his eyes. His mind floats to the Winter Soldier, silver hand against his throat, staring through him with the same eyes, cold and scared and so, _so_ blue.

_ They had the same eyes. _

Sam turns around, confused when he realizes Steve had frozen in his spot a few strides back. Steve feels his heart stop and his throat tighten, a terrible, nauseating thought running through his head. _ Bucky is alive. _

It’s impossible. Steve knows it’s impossible; so when he’s running through the hall with Sam chasing behind him, when he nearly kicks down Tony’s door, he does it knowing, _ praying_, that he’s wrong. 

Praying that Bucky’s dead and not some kind of Hydra assassin tasked to _fucking _kill him. 

“Jesus, Rogers!” Tony drops a device he’s working on when Steve comes flying through the door, Sam breathless behind him. “What the he-”

“Tony, do we have intel on the Soldier? I need to see his face.” Steve rasps urgently through his panting. 

“Yeah, just give me a second and maybe don’t break through my door next time? I could’ve been doing something priv-”

"Tony.” Steve cuts him off, his tone authoritative. Tony reads the look on his face and straightens up, pulling up information on to his interface. 

“I downloaded some data off of one of Hydra’s drives while you were passed out. JARVIS, pull them up please.” Tony waves his hands and medical records pop up on a wall in front of them, along with—

“Oh, my god.” Sam breathes, running a hand over his face.

There’s dozens of grainy images of bloody severed fingers and toes, peeled back skin, pulled-out teeth, all twisted examples of the medical tests Hydra had been conducting; their human experimentation. Steve realizes then and there that Hydra had been corroded, fucking _filthy_ from the beginning. There’s so much red. Steve swallows, his mouth dry.

It gets worse. Bodies, beaten black and blue labelled with _ Healing time: 37 hours. Healing time: 23 hours. _Amputated limbs, bruised faces that Steve remembers vaguely from the cryo cells. There’s an image of a man’s back, whipped until the skin was no longer skin and the muscles underneath were exposed; just bloody sinew. The last photo is of an one-armed man, laying naked across a metal table, doctors cutting into the flesh of his stomach. There’s a brown birthmark near on his hip and Steve remembers, faintly, about the similar one Bucky had on his hip, the one he’d press his lips against when they’d made lo—

“No.” Steve whispered.

The soldier sparing him. The blue eyes. The birthmark. The signs all click together like pieces of a puzzle and Steve—Steve can’t breathe, Tony and Sam swirling in his swimming vision and his lungs are pumping and pumping but there’s no _ fucking _air—

_ “Hey, don’t forget this, punk. I ain’t carryin’ your ass back to bed if you pass out.” Bucky leans in with a grin, body bare under the messy sheets, tucking his inhaler into his front pocket. _

“Woah, woah, big guy, what’s going—hey, Steve!” Sam’s arms are tucked underneath his underarms when he feels his knees buckle. “Okay, Steve, I’m gonna need you to breathe for me, come on, inhale, exhale—” 

  
“Tony, Tony, it’s—Bucky.” Steve gasps out through his panicked breaths. _It’s Bucky_. Tony looks puzzled. It was him the whole, _ goddamn _ time and Steve didn’t even realize, didn’t even fucking notice—

Steve gets pulled onto a chair and he doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t see anything except the photo of Bucky on the wall, laying helplessly on the metal table Steve had walked past, those _psychotic_ fucking doctors digging into his flesh, opening him up without consent, touching him and beating him with those bloodied chains. He was _ livid,_ fury burning red-hot, like lava.

Tony’s face comes into view, lips set in a deep frown and the lines on his forehead more prominent than ever. Sam tells him to breathe, tells him that everything is going to be fine and Steve believes him. He screws his eyes shut and _ breathes in, breathes out _ until his world stills again. 

“Tony. The Soldier is Bucky.” Steve looks up at Tony after a while with crazed eyes. “It’s him. I know it.” Tony considers it for a moment and scratches his beard, looking for the right words to say. 

“I think you just had a panic attack, so I’m gonna need you to calm down until we’re su-”

“It’s him! It’s fucking _him!”_ Steve jumps up and grabs the front of Tony’s shirt, lifting him off the ground, the fabric ripping between his fingers. Steve’s seething and Tony’s eyes are wide with shock, mouth agape. 

“Put him down, Steve.” Sam’s voice is calm and controlled and Steve feels hands rubbing his shoulders. Tony notices, briefly, that Steve's eyes are glassy.

“It’s him.” Steve whispers, voice cracking. He drops Tony and looks him square in the face, desperation drowning out every hint of anger. “Please, Tony, I need him back.” Steve chokes back tears. Tony stares back and there’s silence. Finally, he nods his head, once, then twice, face serious.

“JARVIS, can we get a—uh, map of all the Hydra locations again?”

“Right away, sir.” They pop up one by one. 

"Show me the activity logs for each of the locations, then maybe a body match for Barnes? Steve, did he have any special mark—”

“He had a birthmark on his hip.” Steve says immediately. Tony turns to the picture of Bucky and swears gently when he sees the brown patch of skin. 

"There has been activity detected at the _ Superior Court of Justice,_ sir. It seems to me that someone has entered and exited the facilities 4 times since—”

Those words are enough to send Steve rushing off, mind racing urgently with probabilities as he speeds out the building and hops on his Harley, speeding past driving cars and walking people. The wind whips painfully against his face but he grinds his jaw and leans harder on the handles. 

The courthouse comes into view after what seemed like one—maybe two (Steve hadn't payed attention) hours of driving. He runs into the courthouse, hair disheveled and his steps echoes in the vast rotunda. He takes the elevator down to the lowest floor, slips through a hidden hole in the wall and when he reaches the blasted-off door, he takes a deep inhale and steps in.

The room is unlit and the stench of decomposing bodies hits him like a cement wall, more acrid and pungent than before. Steve feels the water seep through his shoes and he curses at himself for not bringing a flashlight.

"Anyone here?" he says into the room, his hearing heightened now that his vision was compromised. There's no response. He walks past a few cryo pods and tries to avoid looking at what's inside them.

"Is there anyon-" there’s a _ splosh, _then the sound of a gun cocking. Steve freeze mid-step. He swallows, raising his hands up to his head. Another pair of feet wade in the water behind him and he feels the muzzle of the gun pressing against the back of his head.

"Don't. Move." the person growls, voice hoarse and rough with unuse and—and—

_ “Ow! The hell, Rogers?” Bucky swats Steve’s hand off of his bruised face, glaring. Steve sets down the bloodied towel with a frustrated sigh. “Stop. Moving. Then it’ll hurt less, dumbass.” _

"Bucky, it's me. It's Steve." Steve barely chokes out, lips quivering as he tries to turn around. The gun presses deeper.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, they meet! Please leave a kudos/comment if you enjoyed it, it'll make my day :)


	4. memory lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky remembers.

“Buck.” Steve turns around steadily and covers the gun with his hands, pushing it to the side. Bucky lets him, eyes darting between Steve and the gun warily. “I’m Steve. You’ve known me your whole life.”

The man in front of him looked almost unrecognizable; grimy, lank hair framed his face, skin too pale and cheekbones too prominent, eyes set in a hard glare. His beard had grown out, caked in blood and mud and god knows what. The familiar curve of his nose and the jut of his chin had prompted a stream of memories; Steve kissing the tip of his nose while he was asleep. Steve sketching the outline of his face, paying special attention to the cleft in his chin. He was barely a shadow of the charming, bright young man James Barnes had once been, but he was still there. He was still Bucky.

“Buck, remember me? I’m your best friend.” Steve asked, _ begged, _ voice high and pleading and hot tears burning his eyes. "Your name is _James B—"_

—“You’re my. Mission.” Bucky lifts the gun up robotically and rests the cold muzzle between Steve’s eyebrows, his metal arm shaking. He blinks and unbeknownst to him a tear runs down his face, mixing with the dirt against his skin. The finger on the trigger twitches.

Steve doesn’t move away. Doesn’t panic. Just lifts a steady hand up and cups Bucky’s gaunt cheek, thumb wiping the tear away.

“Then finish it, Buck—

_ “I was gonna ask—” Bucky trails behind him awkwardly up the stairs, wringing his sweating hands together. They stop in front of the worn red door. _

_ “I know what you’re gonna say, Buck. I just...” Steve pats his jacket down, hands digging into his front pockets, brows furrowed. _

_ “We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids, it’ll be fun.” Bucky insists lightly. He nudges the brick near the gate with his foot, picking up the key hidden underneath it. “All you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash. Come on.” He flips the key over to Steve. _

_ “Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own.” Steve replies, as unbending as ever. _

_ “The thing is,” Bucky sighs and puts a hand on his shoulder, “you don’t have to— _

—‘cause I’m with you ‘till the end of the line, pal.” Steve whispers.

The air stills around them. Bucky’s lungs stop pumping. There’s no sound; just a vicious burn growing inside his skull, violent and biting as memories of _ before _seep through the cracks of his brainwashing. 

_ “Bucky, cut it out, they’re gonna hear us.” Steve blushes, hands pushing against Bucky’s firm chest. They’re in a tent, the warm glow of the oil lamp casting soft shadows against Bucky’s face. He chuckles, something dark and sultry, lips plush against the skin of Steve’s neck. “Then let them listen, baby.” _

Bucky drops the gun and it disappears under the cloudy water. His hands fly up and claws through his hair, nails sharp as they dig into his scalp.

_ Something tickles his ankle. The Asset looks down. A small hand reaches out between the dead bodies, pale and trembling, clutching the laces of his muddy combat boots. “Help.” the child—a girl, whispers, blood and tears painting her face. The Asset rests the muzzle of his rifle against the girl’s forehead and fires. _

“No!” Bucky roars, slamming his metal fist into the side of his head over and over; a numbing escape from the white-hot pain searing his brain for a few blissful seconds. 

“Hey—Bucky, stop!” Steve lurches forward and grabs the silver arm as Bucky whimpers—high and pained.

_ Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 32557038. Sergeant; 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 32557038. Barnes— _

—“Steve?” Bucky looks up and _ God, _ Steve feels his fucking heart rip in half, feels relief and pain and rage swirling through him like a blizzard, streaming through his veins. Bucky’s eyes are so wide and blue. Bucky is so scared.

“I’m right here, Buck, I’ve got you, never leaving you again. Hey—hey, look at me, I swear I’ll fucking kill whoever tries to take you.” Steve rambles, hands cupping Bucky’s face, pulling him into his warmth. He falls forward and collapses in Steve’s arms.

\----------

“And what the hell is modanifi—modafinil?” Steve asks, exasperated. 

“It’s a nootropic. Keeps you up and improves your cognitive function but—” Tony looks back and forth between the charts in his hands, “It says here that they gave him temazepam, too. Huh. Guess they couldn’t decide if they wanted him asleep or awake.” 

Steve watches Bucky through the surveillance camera blankly, something hot and angry brewing in his gut. He must've been so scared with those—those sick _ scientists _ touching him, injecting him with their poison and cutting him open then sewing him back up like he was their _ toy _. Bucky’s laying on a bed in Tony’s medical room, hooked to a monitor that displayed his slow heartbeats. They had taken some blood from Bucky while he was unconscious, weighed him, ran some tests to figure out what the hell Hydra had done to him. The list of drugs they traced in his blood was unbelievably, inhumanely long.

“JARVIS, you done scanning the rest of those files yet?” Tony calls out.

“Yes, sir.” a catalogue of translated files showed up on the wall screen, seemingly endless. Tony scrolls through the long list of mission reports, pausing occasionally when he finds something interesting to point out. Hours pass, and Steve feels himself nodding off but Tony's voice wakes him up.

“Hey—” Tony stops mid sentence, leaning forward, eyes squinting at a particular date. “J, play that.” Steve quirks his brow.

A surveillance recording plays on the screen in front of them, the footage so grainy and dark Steve strains his eyes to see what’s being filmed. JARVIS automatically adjusts the brightness and Steve’s chest tightens when he sees that it’s Bucky in the video, strapped to the leather chair, filmed from what seemed to be the corner of the lab they explored.

_ “Mission report: December 16, 1991.” _ a soldier orders. Steve barely makes out what’s being said. 

_ “Targets Stark, Howard Anthony Walter and Stark, Maria Collins Carbonell have been eliminated. The briefcase has been secured successfully.” _ Bucky says monotonously. 

Steve’s eyes flicker to Tony immediately, shock and sympathy bubbling inside him. Tony is frozen in his place, arms folded as he watches the video, transfixed. Bucky is pushed further into the chair, straps tightening around his body as the Wiper whirrs to life. Steve pauses the video before the screaming starts.

It all happens in a second; Tony presses some kind of button on his watch and a piece of his suit comes whizzing through the air, attaching itself to his hand. It's an Iron Man glove. Tony marches to the door, towards the medical room.

“Tony, it wasn’t him!” Steve dives forward from the couch, grabbing his arm instinctively and Tony shoots a blast near his feet blindly, making him jump back.

When Tony turns around, he’s angry, nearly seething, pain and blind fury fogging his decisions. 17 years he thought his parents died in a car crash. 17 _goddamn_ years he'd been lied to. “Move.” he orders, but Steve doesn’t budge, as firm and stubborn as always.

“He was brainwashed, Tony. It wasn’t him!” Steve repeats cautiously.

Tony glares through him, his expression so cold and unfeeling it sends a shiver down Steve’s spine. 

“I don't care. He killed my mom.” Tony tries to rip his arm out of Steve’s grip but Steve grabs harder.

“You saw the videos, Tony. Hydra brainwashed him, tortured him, made him into their _ fucking _ weapon. He had no choice but to kill. ”

He slaps Steve’s hand off his arm, chest heaving as he glares at an unconscious Bucky through the screen. 

"They made him do it." Steve says softly. “You saw the photos.” There's tension in the air, heavy and suffocating and Tony aims and blasts the screen apart with a frustrated yell.

“I’m talking to him when he’s awake.” He declares before stomping off. Steve sighs, sitting back down on the sofa, running a hand through his hair. He tries to forget the video of Bucky being forced into the chair, tries to not think about the photos they found in the medical folder. He falls asleeps to the thought of Bucky in his arms again, at home; at peace.

\----------

The Asset had been working for a long, long time.

He does not know who he is or where he came from. He does not have a name but he knows he was designed to follow commands; to serve. To comply. They show him this through the punishments and the beatings. He was made to be used as a weapon the same way guns were made to shoot and knives were made to cut; he knows this. He knows this well. There are only orders to be followed, missions to be completed, protocols to be obeyed. He was designed to be the fist of Hydra; the start of a revolution. 

They inject him with medication and they take his blood and skin and soul. They tell him that he always heals, so it doesn’t matter. They kick him, whip him, touch him until it hurts but he takes it; he takes it because they tell him this is his job, his _ mission__;_ this is what he’s good for. He always heals. This is what he’s good at. He can always heal.

But when the Asset is not assigned to a mission, when he’s not strapped to the Table, or waiting on the Chair, or being dragged into the Cold box and waiting to be woken up days, maybe months, maybe _ years _ later, he can do nothing but close his eyes and dream.

Sometimes, between the wipes, he dreams of kids in the allies, disco lights, brown brick buildings and clear blue skies. Dusty explosions on the battlefield. Smoke from the smoldering bonfire, ribbons of grey dancing from his cigarette. Swing on the radio, bottles of cheap beer and the minty burn of aftershave. A warm body tangled with his in bed; hands on his body, soft lips on his own. Hair pomade and strong coffee. Brooklyn. 

Home. 

He does not know where these dreams come from, but he knows they break protocol; he is not permitted to want, or to engage in activities without permission. The Handlers have not punished him for his dreams_, _so he thinks they are allowed. He thinks he enjoys them. 

Once, after a particularly long mission in New York, someone played music on the plane back. He closed his eyes and fell asleep on the floor, dreamt of blonde hair, fair skin, blue eyes. A faceless man with square shoulders and a wide chest, arms wrapped around his torso, both swaying to the tune from the record player. 

He asked about the man after the mission report. They beat him until he couldn’t scream anymore and wiped him so many times he could no longer tell the difference between dreams and not-dreams and real and not-real.

When the Asset wakes up in the medical room, he sees a blonde hair, fair-skinned, wide-shouldered man sitting outside, head in his hand, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks and his mouth open, drooling.

He doesn’t know where he is or who he is and every part of him _hurts,_ but he knows that this was the man in his dreams.

He knows that he wants this to be real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! please leave a kudos/comment, it'll make my day :)


	5. stories relived

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes.”

Head hurts. Chest hurts. Stomach hurts. Blood hurts. Open the eyes, no one is there. Who said that. Who is Mr. Barnes. 

Look around and there’s white all around the room. He is on a bed. Outside the window there is a man. Yellow hair big shoulders sleeping _ threat level: medium. _

Get up even though legs feel broken and the head goes spinning. The man wakes up and looks—scared? Relieved. The word is relieved. He gets up fast and comes to opens the door. 

Lungs breathing in and out and in out. Check the fingers. 2 broken. Check the toes. None broken. The Arm is functional.

He comes in. He is tall. Reassess threat level. “Buck, you’re awake. You—you, uh, want some food? Maybe some wat—” he is nervous.

“Who is. Buck.” The man is unarmed. Watch out for his hands, they’re moving, where are they going—

The man comes closer. He is now very sad. He looks like a—a—what is it called what is it _ called— _

Dog.

“Bucky, it’s me. Come on, Buck, it’s Steve.” The man moves the hand up, up until it is touching the shoulder. Big and warm and sweaty. He has felt hands like these before.

_ “Войдите в комнату.” the ugly guard orders him, pushing him closer to the door with the tip of his rifle. He doesn’t listen, just plants his bare feet harder into the concrete. _

_ “Он плохо себя ведет?” another guard, a bigger one, comes in. He rests his hand against the baton on his belt. _

_ “Да уж. Тренируй его.” the ugly guard says. The big guard grins, his teeth crooked and yellow, like a wolf. He pulls out the baton and strikes him once, twice, in the ribs. He feels the impact rattles his bones and he growls, punching the big guard square in the nose. He blacks out when the guard strikes him again, this time in the head. _

_ When he wakes up, guards surround him, whipping him with chains, choking him with their leather belts. There's sweaty, hot hands on his shaven head, grappling at his bruised body. He’s pressed to the floor of the experiementation room, the grey concrete cold and damp. The guards take turns to see who can make him scream the loudest. He resists at first, biting and clawing at the hands that touch him until they beat the fight out of him. Until they beat everything out of him. They stop when he stops moving. When they leave, the floor under him is red. _

_ “Ведите себя, тогда вы будете вознаграждены.” the guard tells him before closing the door. He laughs. He laughs until his lungs burn and tears stream down his face and into his mouth. He laughs himself to sleep that night.  
_

No.

Do not touch me. Do not touch me.

Do not touch me. Grab the man’s hand fast and tuck it under the arm and bend until he is yelling. Heart is going so fast legs hurt ribs hurt can't breathe.

“Ow, Buck, hey, it’s okay! You’re okay, I’m not gonna hurt you, ah—” the man is in pain but why is he not yelling. The arm breaks. 

_ “Hey, look at me. Buck. You’re okay, right? Say it. Say you’re okay.” he hacks out a cough, wet and harsh and Steve winces, grabbing his hand harder. They’re crammed in a dug-out, mud soaking through their clothes, faces dirtied with camouflage and blood. He’s injured and Steve is panicking. _

_ “Geez, I’m okay. Stop worryin’, Rogers, I ain’t dy—” He coughs into his other hand and when he pulls away, there’s blood splattered on his palm. Steve feels the air freeze, dread crawling up his spine, icy cold. Gunfire echoes in the distance.  
_

_ He wipes his mouth and glances at Steve, concerned. “Hey, Steve, I’m fine. It’s okay. I’ll be—” he chokes up one last rattling cough, little dots of blood landing on Steve’s arm, before passing out. _

“Steve?” the mouth moves. _ Do not speak unless spoken to, Soldier. _ What is Steve. Heart is beating head is thump thump thumping who is this man where am I why am I _ orders are absolute, Soldier— _

Go away go away. Get out of my head _ get out— _

_ longing, rus— _

No. Hands on the head and the eyes burn. Go on the knees and _ beg for it, it’s the only thing you’re good for. _Eyes are blurry head hurts blood hurts who is Steve Stevie where are you I’m scared. 

_ hail hy— _

“Please.” close the eyes. Go on the knees and_ you don't get to ask for things, you little bitch._ No more, please. No more.

“Bucky.” the man—Steve—leans down. He is so close and so wide. There’s a bit of green in his blue eyes. “I’ve got you, Buck, you’re fine now. You’re safe. We’re gonna help you get better, okay?” he says. His eyes are shiny.

When he speaks it is soft and warm and kind. Not yelling. The heart slows down. He thinks he knows Steve.

“Okay.” he replies.

\----------

“How many times do I need to tell you this, Cap, he’s been brainwashed, he’s _ dangerous—” _

“He’s vulnerable, Tony.” Steve insists, sighing, hands on his hips and a crinkle in his forehead. “His brainwashing has been compromi—”

—“compromised. Sure. Compromised. He broke your arm.” Tony paces around the table. “Why am I even arguing? I should’ve done this the second he walked through the door. He’s a _ threat. _” Steve clenches his jaw at his word choice. Tony picks something up from the table—a small, silver disk, and Steve stares at it skeptically.

“If it’s going to hurt him...” Steve trails off, wavering.

“And It’s not. It’s just a little, teeny, prick, then boom. Lights out.” Tony sets the small disk in front of Steve. “It’s filled with ten miligrams of clonazepam—” Steve looks at him, puzzled, and Tony rolls his eyes. “Which is a tranquilizer. The disk'll release the tranq when you press this—” he shakes a controller with a button in the center in front of Steve’s face, — “and it’ll calm him down, nice and easy. Banner made this for himself.” 

Steve grabs the disk, agreeing reluctantly. It’s sleek and flat in his hand, almost weightless, about the size and thickness of a quarter. He stares at it and... _ nervousness? unease? _blooms in his gut. He doesn’t trust Tony but he’ll trust Banner. 

He walks to the medical room. Bucky is asleep on his white bed, body unnaturally straight and postured. When Steve enters, his eyes open immediately; motorized, mechanical, ready to fight; undisputedly something Hydra had trained into him. Steve’s heart cracks just a little more.

“Hey, pal, how’re you feeling?” Steve walks slowly as to not startle him, hand relaxed, displaying his empty palm. Bucky sits up as Steve pulls out a chair and faces him.

A sour, sickening stench wafted from the man infront of him; days, perhaps weeks of grime building on his clothes and his skin. Steve forces a neutral expression on his face and breathes through his mouth instead. Bucky ignores his question, his eyes bloodshot, wild, darting from Steve’s face to his hand.

“We’ll get you some food, maybe a sh—”

“I’m. Sorry.” Bucky interrupts suddenly, head tilted down, looking almost... _ashamed._ “I’m sorry.” he repeats, lower, raspier.

“For what?” Steve furrows his brows and Bucky glances at Steve’s cast. “Oh, don’t worry about it. It wasn’t your fault. Besides, I—I heal pretty fast.” Bucky doesn't respond, eyes towards the floor. There’s an awkward stillness in the room.

“Uh, JARVIS?”

“At your service, Captain Rogers.” Bucky startles, eyes searching around the room for the source of the voice.

“Can we get some—uh, food? Maybe a nutritional shake, something easy on the stomach.” 

“Of course, sir.” JARVIS sends a tray into the room carrying squeeze bottles filled with pale liquid, helpfully listing off the nutritional details.

Steve grabs a bottle and opens it, passing it to Bucky. He takes it slowly and reluctantly, but after he drinks the first sip he wolfs down the rest of the contents. Steve could only watch uncomfortably as he chokes on the drink—Bucky obviously didn't want to be touched. When he’s finished, he sets the crumpled bottle next to himself on the bed. He doesn’t ask for more but Steve hands him another bottle anyway. When he's finished, Steve digs out the little disk from his pocket.

“This is a… clonezepam, no, clonezenpan.” Steve scratches his head. “It’s a tranquilizer disk that goes on your body and it’ll help calm you down if you need to be… sustained.” Steve explains amateurly and Bucky stays quiet. God, did he wish Sam were here; he’d be so much better at this. 

“Is it alright if I put this on you?” Steve shows him the disk and Bucky looks up, eyes so empty, so bare. He’s not used to being asked things. He nods once and Steve moves his hair out of the way and places the disk on the back of his neck, watching as it adheres itself painlessly.

The door opens and both their heads turn towards Tony. Steve stands up immediately, situating himself between Tony and the bed like a wall. Tony chuckles drily.

“Relax, Cap, I’m not gonna hurt your Bucky bear.” He steps to the side and looks Bucky in the eyes. “Howard Stark. Maria Stark. Remember those names?” 

Bucky stiffens, visibly anxious. He tips his head down again, silent, avoiding Tony’s gaze. Steve moves closer to him and it seems to calm him down.

“Come on, buddy. Howard and Maria Stark. Do you remember them?” Tony presses impatiently, emphasizing their names. Bucky’s breaths come in quicker, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides; Steve can tell he’s panicking.

“Tony, he doesn—” Steve’s interrupted mid-sentence.

“You don’t even remember them, huh? You just kill and forget, is that what you do? Like a machine. Like a goddamn _ machine_, of course you forget. You can’t even think for yourself.” Tony turns around as he throws his hands up frustratedly. There’s friction in the air as Tony mutters angrily under his breath and Bucky shakes on the bed, arm whirring noisily when he clenches and unclenches his metal fingers. Steve eyes Tony when he walks out of the room, and when he's half out the doorway Bucky speaks.

“I. Remember them.” his voice a low whisper. Bucky looks straight forwards; eyes emotionless, empty, steel cold like his arm. His gaunt cheeks looked even hollower under the white lights.

“I remember. Them all.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
